Bend Me
by Lodestar
Summary: In which the story ends as all bad stories should... *Chapter 4 Now Here!*
1. Bend Me, Shape Me

*Bend Me*  
  
author: lodestar (pka blackswan15)  
  
  
  
The problem with this sort of story, Draco thought angrily, kicking savagely at the slushy snow, was that the author never adequately explained what the hell he was doing at Hogwarts over Christmas break anyway. Not only that, in this case, the whole mess had been elevated to the status of a bloody *plothole.*  
  
He absolutely detested this author.  
  
It all started a few weeks before break began. Looking back, he had an overwhelming sense of some giant, diabolical cuckoo clock stirring and grinding its way to feverish life. Nights had become magical, days glorious. The proverbial cup of holiday cheer (actually the Goblet of Fire cleverly recycled into a new plot) had overflowed and become to leave puddles of what looked for all the world like wassail in the entrance hall. Mistletoe, which had never been an essential part of the festive decorations before, began cropping up everywhere- over doorways, in classrooms, inside a few dark and deserted linen closets, even on the evergreens in the forbidden forest. There had been talk of having a Yule Ball, and only Draco's determined shouting had alerted everyone to the fact that as there wasn't a Tournament going on there really couldn't be a dance.  
  
But all of this was just the earmarks of the usual yuletide ficlet. It wasn't until a few days later that Draco realized that the situation was far more grave. Finnigan and Longbottom were seen wandering through the halls, holding hands and running into walls as they gazed deeply into each other's eyes. The next day, Colin Creevy and Justin Finch-Fletchly were found in the Astronomy Tower. The situation deteriorated rapidly from that moment on. It was discovered that Professors Trelawney and McGonnigal had been in love (and denial) with each other since their schooldays. Lee Jordan jumped Fred Weasley on his way to transfiguration, and in a hallway that had been almost completely devoid of mistletoe to boot! His twin had sulked about the whole thing for about half a day before hooking up with Professor Snape. Cho Chang had put aside her grief at the death of Cedric Diggory and announced her engagement to Fluer, with whom she had been secretly corresponding. She did still wear black, but that could easily have been a side effect of Hogwart's required uniform. Even the mysterious Blaise was rumored to be involved with Terry Boot, or possibly Lavender Brown, depending on which sex he. she. whatever, was.  
  
Judging by the unusually high percentage of students who had suddenly decided to come out of the closet (sometimes without ever having realized they'd been in it) there was only one conclusion to be made. Someone out there was a slash fan. It was an unfortunate fact that such writers were never content with having one interesting couple, and instead of quality went for staggering quantity.  
  
Draco was really surprised at how long it'd taken him to put two and two together. Looking around, he should have seen that every student with a recognizable name had been paired off. except for one.  
  
The realization had hit him halfway through a bowl of soggy cereal one morning a few days before break. He'd been sniggering at the fact that he seemed to be the only one with an accurate food to mouth ratio, due to the number of searing glances being tossed back and forth between tables, when he'd discovered that someone else was calmly eating his breakfast in the midst of all these hormones. A certain black-haired, green-eyed, worst, most hated enemy of his life someone.  
  
Draco's spoon hit his nose.  
  
"Bugger!" he shouted, standing and tipping his bowl all over Pansy, who didn't even bother to stop making eyes at Padma Patil, and fled the room.  
  
  
  
  
  
From that moment on Draco began an active crusade against this ridiculous Christmas romance. He spent as little time as possible in the hallways, threw away unmarked letters without opening them, and generally made himself as scarce as possible. He even resorted to feigning illness to get out of the last double potions class of the year. He corresponded daily with his parents, reminding them that they had made no plans to go away, just the two of them, that it was highly unlikely Draco would *want* to stay at school for the break, and that free tickets for an Alaskan cruise (the writer's last, desperate, attempt) were not to be trusted.  
  
So he was more than a little annoyed when, not two hours before the departure of the Hogwarts Express, he had received a letter.  
  
  
  
Dear Son,  
  
Have conveniently dropped off the face of the earth for a few days. Hope you'll have a good time at Hogwarts this Christmas.  
  
Your loving parents.  
  
  
  
That was it? *This* was the author's clever way of getting rid of his parents? Not even bothering to think up some harebrained explanation? It was ridiculous, a tribute to how low a dedicated fan would go. And the day Lucius described himself as loving would be a cold one in hell. Draco's boots (the only leather he would ever wear, he swore to himself) crushed the unoffending snow to slick ice as he stomped back and forth over the ground.  
  
*He* had stayed, of course. Almost the only Gryffindor to do so. But Draco hadn't actually seen him for a few days. He'd made sure of that.  
  
Actually, despite his dreadful predicament, Draco was feeling pretty good about all this. With only a few more days to go until Christmas, he'd managed to effectively nip all attempts at romance before the plant had even sprouted. In fact, there hadn't even been any cliched attempts since Tuesday. Draco was beginning to hope that perhaps the author had given up, leaving him to spend his holiday in (comparative) peace. Maybe he wouldn't bother skipping dinner tonight.  
  
Something distinctly Harry Potter-Shaped bowled him over. "Got you!"  
  
"Oh for goodness sake!" Draco muttered around a mouthful of powdery snow. "Potter, get off me!"  
  
"No." Harry's breath was tickling the back of his neck. Deliberately, he was sure. "You've been sulking all week, and I want to know why."  
  
"Under normal circumstances," said Draco, trying not to wiggle for fear of contributing to the already charged atmosphere. "I'd ask why the hell you cared. Unfortunately."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
Draco sighed into the ice under his nose. "Even you can't be that dense. Look around you. We've obviously stumbled into a badfic."  
  
"Oh, that. Well yeah."  
  
"So."  
  
"So what?"  
  
"So get off me!"  
  
Harry considered. He let out a considering sort of contented sigh. He placed a considering kiss at the nape of Draco's neck.  
  
"Stop that."  
  
He nuzzled a thoughtful route upwards towards the other boy's ear.  
  
"Oh, yuck. Cut it out, Potter!" Draco thrust the elbow that hadn't been trapped by his fall upwards into his enemy's ribs and was rewarded with a muffled ouch, and angry bite, and, thankfully, the termination of extra warmth and weight and Harry rolled of him. Now if he'd just take it one step further and go away all together. Draco wanted nothing more than to stay undisturbed in the snow and die.  
  
But Harry didn't seem inclined towards this infinitely logical conclusion. He just lay like a lump in the snow next to Draco. Eventually he turned his head towards the blonde. "I'm sorry."  
  
"No you're not." Was the despondent reply.  
  
"Okay, fine." Harry sat up. "Maybe I'm not."  
  
"I can't believe you, Potter. We're at the mercy of a person who may be the worst author since Rita Skeeter, and you're going along with it!" Draco snapped.  
  
"Malfoy."  
  
"I try to be understanding. I mean, it's not your fault you're most idiotically adorable wizard ever to-"  
  
"Malfoy."  
  
"-but I have my limits. What the hell possessed you-"  
  
"Malfoy!"  
  
"Sorry?" Draco asked.  
  
"You just called me adorable."  
  
"Did I?" said Draco. "Damn."  
  
There was a moment of silence. Followed by a second. Just when a third was thinking about putting in an appearance.  
  
"Are you going to get up?"  
  
"No." said Draco. "I'm going to stay right here until you go away."  
  
"That's not very practical."  
  
"I'll probably catch hypothermia." Draco agreed.  
  
"Because I'm not going anywhere."  
  
"I bet the author would just adore that plot twist."  
  
"Because I love you."  
  
Moment of silence number three burst in triumphantly.  
  
After it had had its time in the spotlight, Draco sat up. His hair was covered with snow and one half of his face was wet with melted ice and red with cold. Unfortunately, he looked more like a spoiled child who had fallen down while ice skating than a beautiful ice sculpture, fallen angel, or any other quick metaphor the author could think up. "That," he said finally. "Was the fic talking."  
  
"Will you forget about that? I agree that the author's doing a gawdawful job of it, but that doesn't change a thing about you and me."  
  
"You're right." Draco agreed, standing up. "Even if it was bloody Shakespeare I'd still hate you."  
  
And with that, he was gone.  
  
Harry looked up at the sky, shrugged expressively, and wandered back inside.  
  
  
  
  
  
I the relative safety of the dungeons, Draco stopped to catch his breath. "That was just sneaky" he muttered to the wall, certain the author would hear. "Definite foul play." But who would have thought Potter would have turned out to be so weak-willed? The bite on his ear burned. "Stupid Potter."  
  
And yet, if he was being totally honest, he had to admit it wasn't disgust that made him shiver when he thought about the kisses that had wandered along his neck.  
  
Cold. He'd never said it wasn't cold. He'd probably caught a chill. That was it.  
  
He found a large clump of mistletoe hung over his bed.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Vince?"  
  
Crabbe looked up from the textbook he was halfheartedly pretending he didn't know how to read. "What?"  
  
"Draco won't get out of bed."  
  
Vincent looked up at his best friend. "So? It's the holidays. He doesn't have to if he doesn't want to."  
  
"But he says he's not coming out at all until school starts again."  
  
"What, not even to eat?"  
  
Goyle paused. "I don't know. Probably not. Should I ask him?"  
  
The curse that slammed into the doorframe as he approached rather made up his mind.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Wake up, Greg! Look presents!"  
  
"Ooooh. Oh, and I got this for you."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Get a room!" Draco shouted.  
  
Vincent looked confused. "Be we have got a room."  
  
"Then get one I'm not in!"  
  
Draco turned his attention to the pile of presents conveniently places at the bottom of his bed. There was a postcard on top from his parents. "Having a great time, wish you were. wherever we are." He had the feeling he was being deliberately taunted.  
  
Buried underneath a large box of what would probably turn out to be underwear was a small package of red tissue paper and golden ribbon. *His* colors.  
  
"Oh be a little more obvious," Draco muttered. But he opened it anyway.  
  
It was a tiny statue, made of flawless crystal. As he watched, it uncurled itself and became a tiny dragon, yawning hugely.  
  
"Of course," Draco muttered. "You do realize you're hopelessly cliché?" He asked it.  
  
It bit him gently on the finger and went back to sleep.  
  
He should have thrown it away. Instead he set it on his nightstand.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Hey. Draco. Wake up, Draco."  
  
"For crissakes, Greg, it's past midnight. What are you?- nevermind, don't tell me."  
  
Draco, there's something glowing over your head.  
  
Draco looked up. He groaned. He slammed his head back into the pillow and fell back asleep.  
  
Floating over the top of his headboard, writing in something glowing and bright green, were the letters *T, B, C.*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*Warning*: If you don't warn me about hetfic why should I warn you about slash? Do you know how much time I've wasted reading the start of Draco/Hermione fics? Well, actually, some of them were just fine. but that's hardly the point!  
  
*Disclaimer*: This has all been wickedly stolen from JKR. Also, you should be aware that it is indeed a parody, but it's all in fun. I adore slash. I adore slash writers. I just don't always adore their methods. And don't think I mind the plot elements I'm making fun of. As long as they're well- written. Unlike this. ^_~ 


	2. Any Way You Want Me

Hey. Just the author pointing out to you that this fic's rating has gone up to PG-13. She'll be quiet now like a *good* little girl. Also, if I hadn't already made this clear, this is slash parody for slasher, by a slahs. If you don't read, write slash, by all means try this fic anyway, but be aware of what it's conclusion will be...  
  
  
  
  
Draco sat in the Slytherin common room, staring moodily at the sputtering flames attempting to unify into something a bit more impressive. Usually, gazing into the enormous stone fireplace that lay like a gaping mouth at one end of the sitting area was a bit like looking through a window into hell (perfect for pacing moodily in front of while plotting ones next great defeat at the hands of good) but the entire effect was decidedly underwhelming today.  
  
This could, of course, be because leather doesn't burn particularly well.  
  
The large box Draco had so quickly written of as more underclothes had turned out to contain a pair of pants. Black as sin, too tight for an anorexic pixie, absolutely indecent.  
  
And leather.  
  
Draco was insulted. The author hadn't even bothered to try to explain where they had come from. What a perfectly obvious attempt to make him step out of character and into the wide real of exhibitionism, where, despite his undying vanity, he had no desire to go.  
  
His first act upon deciding that he would probably be just as safe in the rest of the dormitories as he was hiding in his bed had been to throw the bloody things in the fire. Upon further reflection, he supposed he should have saved them and sold them to the highest bidder. With all the strange behavior among his classmates lately, he was sure he could've found someone who wanted them once classes were back in session. With a final gusty sigh over chances lost, he pulled his chair closer to the nearby table and turned his laptop back on.  
  
The fact that he had one was a blatant mistake on the part of the author. The very idea of wizards, who couldn't even figure out how to hold a telephone, having computers was an inexcusable slip-up on their part. On the one had, Draco wished he wasn't giving into the deluded author on even a little issue like this, but, on the other, he felt that in this case he was justified in not looking in the gift horse's mouth.  
  
He was collecting information.  
  
*Dear god, this stuff is awful. As if I'd ever send him roses! Besides, I'm allergic.* Writing this story off as unimportant, he hit the backspace button and continued perusing the archives.  
  
"Done that… tried that… No *way* am I visiting the astronomy tower… hinges on the pants anyway- Which I burned!" this last was shouted to the world in general (and the author in particular.) "I'm not an insomniac, so that one's out… and… oh disgusting!"  
  
//…your tongue continues to trace its slow way across my collarbone. As you follow an achingly slow path back up to my mouth, I close my eyes so all I can do is feel. Your fingers push their way into the space between the buttons of my robe and encounter the fabric of my long-sleeved shirt. It hardly matters that it's there- I could feel your touch through a wall of stone…//  
  
*This is… supposed to be us?*  
  
// …you're so near, I can't help but kiss you...//  
  
"Draco?"  
  
//…kiss you…//  
  
"Hey, Draco!"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Ummm… I don't think most people sit quite that close to the screen…"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"And your mouth was hanging open. Are you falling asleep or something?"  
  
"Maybe he's sick. Does he look a little flushed to you?"  
  
"Shut up! I'm just fine." Draco slammed the laptop shut. It closed with a smug-sounding click.  
  
"Ummm… Dra?"  
  
Draco rolled his eyed. "Greg, you've never called me Dra in your life. And I will take steps to ensure you never do again, if necessary."  
  
"Okay… Draco. What's in the fireplace?"  
  
  
  
  
  
The Slytherin grandfather clock was a masterpiece in itself. Large, old, and with a booming chime specifically designed to awaken reluctant minions of the Dark Lord from their disturbed slumber, it sat in the hall that connected the seven dormitories, ensuring that everyone had an equal chance at being annoyed, ticking out its wicked thoughts with an old man's cackling laugh. Draco had tried, unsuccessfully, to tip the thing over during his first week at school.  
  
At the moment it was striking two.  
  
Below, in the deserted common room, something went 'ouch.'  
  
Draco sat up in bed. A floorboard creaked. A door conspicuously tried not to groan as it was nudged open. He reached for his wand.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
After a suitably off-putting amount of time, the drapes around Draco's four-poster began to move.  
  
Draco, however, was ready for this. Moving with seeker speed, he flicked the curtains out of his way and brandished his wand at the empty air.  
  
"Andicern!" He shouted, flailing about himself angrily. A spray of green sparks shot into the air, drifting down and crating the outline of a figure standing at the foot of the bed. "I know it's you, Potter."  
  
"Drat," said a slightly muffled voice, and a moment later the form became very definitely that of Harry Potter as he shook off both tiny lights and invisibility cloak. "That wasn't a real spell!"  
  
"So? Authors like this one are always making up their own spells."  
  
"Point conceded. How did you know I was coming?"  
  
"I did a little research." Draco kept his wand trained on the other boy. "How did you get in?"  
  
Harry looked confused. "I don't know. Everything was just sort of… open, you know?"  
  
"No."  
  
"No? Well then, maybe I overheard-"  
  
"Don't think so. Greg and Vincent have been here all day with me, and you'll notice that this place is otherwise conveniently empty."  
  
"Perhaps-"  
  
"You don't know, do you?"  
  
Harry blushed. "Well, you don't know either! For god's sake, this is just where the author chose to start the scene! We don't have to worry about what was going on before now!"  
  
"That's a slipshod way of writing."  
  
"I agree. Useful, though." Harry grinned and sat down on the edge of the bed.  
  
Draco poked him in the chest with his wand. "Get up right now."  
  
"What? I'm only sitting."  
  
"Oh, sure, you're only sitting *now.* But in a minute it'll be 'I'm just moving over a little bit,' and then 'I'm just going to lie down for a minute,' and then… don't give me that look!"  
  
"What look?"  
  
"That glazed-over, I'd-really-like-to-jump-you-now look."  
  
"Oh. This look?"  
  
Harry was leaning forward, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of Draco. Draco couldn't help but stare into the beautiful green eyes before him… *Wait a minute… since when to I think his eyes are beautiful? Since when do I think 'Since when do I think' about my own thoughts? I know what I'm thinking, don't I? Ack!* Just in time, he rolled out of the way, knocking Harry onto his face and falling off the bed in the process. "That's it! Out. Now!"  
  
There was a momentary pause as his nemesis lay with his face smashed into a pillow. Then: "It smells like you," he commented indistinctly.  
  
"I'll thank you to stop having sick fantasies about my bed."  
  
"They're not sick." Harry clarified, rolling over. He blinked. "Did you know there's mistletoe hanging over your bed?"  
  
"It won't be the only thing hanging if you're not out of here before I finish this spell."  
  
"All right already! You win for tonight." He stood up. "But remember, I have to win eventually. Otherwise this whole story will have been a waste of time."  
  
"Not if I have anything to say about it!"  
  
Harry turned back around in the doorway. Framed by the dim light of the hallway, his face seemed softer than usual. "I love you."  
  
"The feeling," Draco responded. "Is *not* mutual."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"I love you," Harry said from his place in the doorway as he turned to walk away.  
  
"Harry," Draco whispered. "No, wait."  
  
The length of the room melted into nothing as they turned to each other. Draco was painfully aware of the strength of his heartbeat. And then the other boy was on him, pushing him backwards onto the bed as their lips and mouths connected for the first time, and nothing had ever felt half so good in his life, and then there was nothing but taste and feeling and Harry, Harry, Harry…  
  
Draco sat bold upright. It was dark; deep night, and he was thankfully, blessedly alone in the blackness. He could feel the sweat gathering at his forehead. He took a quick, soothing gulp of air.  
  
"Oh, now that's mature." He told the bedroom. "Couldn't get me to really do anything so you write me the sappiest dream you can think of? Well, maybe not sappy, but certainly…" his brain abandoned his mouth. Surely it was too late to be arguing with an author? Reluctantly, he lay back down.  
  
*Certainly… something…*   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Over the course of the next few days, Draco became sinkingly aware of the fact that nobody was on his side. The depth of the faculty's hatred for him seemed to him to be measured in the lengths they were willing to go to to get him and his rival together. The final blow had come in the morning. Now he knew absolutely that it had been ridiculous to think he could hide from this author.  
  
"For the last time," he explained patiently to his two friends, "Hogwarts does not celebrate New Years."  
  
"Well, they are this year," Vince said stubbornly. "And we're *making* you go."  
  
"Don't even think about it."  
  
"Oh, we're not thinking about it. We're doing it." Goyle explained patiently, pushing Draco out of the common room.  
  
"Shame you burned those pants," Crabbe remarked, casting a final look around the room before following the other two out. "You could've worn them."  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. "Thank god for small favors."  
  
  
  
  
  
Draco had to admit that someone had put a lot of effort into this for the number of students in attendance (perhaps thirty total) It was even beautiful… in an overpowering, my god why didn't someone stop them kind of way. Every spare inch glittered and shone. He was most earnestly longing to break character and pull out a pair of sunglasses, but he felt the author had mucked things up quite enough for one evening.  
  
In fact, it was barely ten, and already things were breaking up. The teachers had almost all gone to bed, and the few students who were still there appeared to be mostly interested in watching him and Harry.  
  
Draco was making sure they had very little to watch.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy, if you would be so good?"  
  
Draco looked up from the confetti covered tablecloth. Dear lord, not Snape. Of all the characters in this bloody mess, Snape was perhaps the most grossly misrepresented of all. This was evidenced by the twinkle in his eye as he pronounced Draco's final sentence  
  
"The party, I believe, is almost over. I must stay to clean up, but there's no reason to detain you. However, as I can't have you wandering the halls alone… Mr. Potter will escort you." Was that a smile?  
  
Then again, maybe Snape was the same sadistic man as always.  
  
"But Professor! I won't be alone! It'll be me and Crabbe and Goyle!"  
  
"I'm afraid they left long ago. Destination, Astronomy Tower, I believe."  
  
Draco glared daggers. "Potter! Get over here. We're leaving. Try to hold my hand and die."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They walked side by side, perfectly quiet, through the long hallways leading to the dungeons.   
  
"That," Harry said finally "Was pretty bad."  
  
"Well, it'll all be over soon."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Don't sound so upset, Potter. We both know that this isn't really right."  
  
"It is for me."  
  
"No, it isn't."  
  
"You don't get it, do you?!" They had stopped walking now, glaring at each other across a not so crowded hallway. "I've been waiting for an author like this! Granted, the writing leaves something to be desired…"  
  
"Yeah, like me. And I'm staying that way!" Draco spun halfway on his heel, striding down the hallway as quickly as he could without actually breaking into a run.  
  
"Yes, like you!" Harry was catching up. "I've needed to tell you all this for a long time, and what have I gotten? Parodies, mysteries, comedies, fluff with Ginny Weasley! I can't wait until we get another slasher! You're beautiful, you know that?"  
  
"Of course I know that!" Draco snapped over his shoulder. "Now leave me alone." He turned the final corner, the suit of armor that guarded the door was in view.  
  
"You're not giving me a chance!"  
  
"Because I don't need to!"  
  
"Yes you do!" Harry had caught up to him, grabbing for his hand, forcing him to stop again. "Just- look I know it's asking a lot, but- just give me one kiss."  
  
Draco finally looked at the other boy. "No."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because… I don't know! Because if I do- and if I… No. I just won't." Wrenching his hand free with a painful jerk, he made a break for the safety of Slytherin house, slamming the inner door shut behind him.  
  
*Because if I do… and if I like it… I can't! I wouldn't! I won't sink to this writer's level. I can't…*  
  
  
TBC  
  
  
A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I can't believe anyone but me thought this was actually funny! Sorry if this chapter isn't as good (that's my opinion) but I had to get it out before New Years was *too* far behind us. I'll probably edit at some point... suggestions?  
  
The story Draco was reading is actually part of an "R" ficlet by me called "Everything" if you were looking for something a bit more... adult, could you look at that for me? Thanks! 


	3. Long As You Love Me

That last opening note was completely unintelligible (I can type- really!) I'll say it one more time. Boy x Boy is my game. With that out of the way… *snaps back into clueless author mode*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Draco paced back and forth on the Slytherin-green rug, weighing his options. His bare feet ground savagely into the twining black vines and silver unicorns (a highly ironic thing to put on a Slytherin House rug, he was sure) beneath him. The way he saw it, things were not going well for anyone. Which, as his personal feelings made up only one third of the sum total (the other two being his sworn enemy and the well detested author) was a perfectly acceptable state of affairs.  
  
The clock struck nine, indicating to the readers ('Hah!' Draco scoffed emphatically) that somehow night had run away into a lovely morning that otherwise had a snowball's chance in hell of making its presence felt in the dungeons. As if to offer up affirmation, his stomach rumbled.  
  
Draco had to admit that he very often let his stomach do a bit of the thinking for him. For example, go steal food from the kitchens and torture the house elves because it's empty, tease the Weasel until he's just about to punch you in it, that sort of thing. And it was currently creating a bit of a dilemma. On the one hand, he was certain that leaving the already compromised safety of the dorms would be a total mistake, but his body was reminding him that he'd been too busy to eat much of anything last night. Ordinarily, he'd just send one of the boys to go get him something, but Vince and Greg hadn't come back yet.  
  
He felt very much like a convict being starved out of hiding.  
  
On the other hand, what was the worst that could happen? After all, Draco thought he'd pretty much proven that he could deal with whatever the author and Potter tried to throw at him.  
  
Hadn't he?  
  
As soon as he started across the room, Draco began to have a tickling suspicion that this was a terrible idea. It could've been some sort of wizard's intuition, a deep genetic Malfoy talent, but it was more than likely that he'd really been tipped off by the theme music.  
  
*You can try to resist  
Try to hide from my kiss  
But you know (but you know) that you  
Can't fight the moonlight no…*  
  
"Oh this works really well," Draco sneered. "Idiot. It's daylight, and even if it weren't…. And didn't anyone ever explain that you don't need to repeat lyrics like that? Songfics!"  
  
*You can't fight it…*  
  
Dear god. A few more minutes with a song like this and he'd willingly throw himself at Harry just for distraction's sake. Which was probably the idea, unless the author really did have terrible taste in music. Preoccupied, Draco kicked the door open, making the suit of armor clatter sideways to avoid being smashed into a hundred pieces.  
  
Harry Potter was sitting in the corridor outside. Slumped, actually. Asleep.  
  
*It's gonna get to your-*  
  
"Shut up!" Draco hissed. "You'll wake him up!"  
  
The music discreetly cut out.  
  
The Boy who Lived sat with his back pressed against the wall, his arms wrapped protectively around his knees, head tipped back so that his glasses had gradually ridden up his nose. His long eyelashes had gathered into points that gently drew attention to the dark shadows over his cheekbones, product of a night of what must have been fitful sleep at best. His lips had fallen slightly open to reveal a gleam of teeth.   
  
He was not beautiful. Teenage boys simply cannot be beautiful.  
  
Draco knelt in front of his not-beautiful nemesis, reaching out with the intent to wake him up and send him as far away from all things Malfoy as possible. Leaning forward, however, he was stuck by something odd. This close, he could catch the other boy's scent as easily as if it had been a tangible object, a golden snitch. Harry smelled of wind and something quiddichy (linseed oil, his mind supplied) and a distinct underlying smell that was his alone.  
  
It didn't make sense. Normal people didn't smell like that. Normal people smelled of wool cloaks and dinner and, if you were lucky, soap and toothpaste. Even knowing very well who was in charge of olfactory descriptions, Draco was momentarily thrown. He smelled… good.  
  
Normal people didn't have flawless skin, either. No blemishes, no cuts or scars except for the trademark lightning bolt half hidden under a rough fringe of hair. Skin so smooth it seemed poreless, none of the defects one would expect in a teenager. Draco dropped his guard against the author completely in favor of a closer inspection. He found himself reaching out to *feel* for some miniscule imperfection, something to make the boy before him human again.  
  
He was warm. Maybe that was enough. He wasn't a statue to be put on a pedestal, but he still might break, and Draco forced his hand to be light as he traced the length of Harry's face from chin to temple.  
  
Too late, common sense decided to make an appearance. /Hello,/ it said /Remember me? I'm just here to ask what the hell you think you're doing. You're not even questioning the author's choices, you're thinking in bad descriptive imagery, you're *touching* him, for crissake!/  
  
Draco thought this last comment deserved an answer, and fast, before he lost all his justification. *Yeah… well. It doesn't count if he's asleep.*  
  
/Please…/ common sense rolled its eyes and dove back into the depths of his mind.  
  
Harry sighed and turned his face towards Draco's fingers, so that the tip of his little finger grazed the other boy's lip. It was smooth and slightly damp, and sent an accidental shiver up Draco's arm. He could feel Potter momentarily tense, then suddenly relax as his breathing returned to a carefully controlled slow rate.  
  
Draco quickly changed his mantra. *Okay… It doesn't count if he's pretending he's asleep, it doesn't count if he's…* His fingers examined the smoothness of an eyebrow.  
  
Harry leaned forward and kissed the other boy's palm. It felt like electricity, like the touch of angel wings, like- /Metaphore!/ common sense shouted, finally managing to deliver a swift kick to Draco's brain -*there's no way I can rationalize this*- and sending him rolling backwards towards the door. He ended up missing it by a good yard and slamming his shoulder blades into the opposite wall instead.  
  
A pair of knees came into his still star-spangled line of vision. "Are you alright?"  
  
Draco attempted to roll his eyes and winced. *Just act like nothing happened. Malfoy pride, boy, Malfoy pride.* "Were you here all night, Potter? That's really rather pathetic."  
  
"Oh, yes. I'm not the one who's just proved that he's hopelessly in-"  
  
"Don't you dare say it!"  
  
"Denial."  
  
"Oh." Draco could feel himself blushing. "Please go away now."  
  
"Why don't you just admit it now and save us both a lot of trouble?"  
  
"There's nothing to admit," Draco snarled, sitting up with extreme dignity and not a little anger. At least, that was his plan until his forehead cracked against Harry's with a painful smack, causing them both to fall backwards in opposite directions. "Oh great," he muttered, standing up woozily with the wall as support. "On top of everything else, I'll probably have a concussion." Sideways, pressed against the wall of the corridor, he'd almost inched his way to the door when-  
  
"You're the biggest cliché in this story, you know."  
  
Enraged, Draco glared down at the boy watching him from the floor. "How *dare* you?!"  
  
Harry pushed his glasses back into place and gave him what could almost have been a Malfoy-quality smirk. "It's true. You think you're so detached from this whole situation, but you're the worst stereotype of all." His voice rose an octave or two to a delicate falsetto. "Poor little Malfoy- never felt this way before so he doesn't know what to do."  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
"Tell me, what are those five steps to acceptance?"  
  
Draco took a great deal of pleasure in slamming the door in Potter's general direction.  
  
  
  
  
  
If he had been so contrived, he would have fallen onto his bed and sobbed. If he were out of character, he would've welcomed the tiny glass dragon that leapt onto his shoulder as he entered.  
  
The crystal shattered as it met the wall.  
  
  
  
  
Draco was confused. Surely, *surely* this was supposed to have been a holiday fluff piece.  
  
Christmas break was finally at an end. The student body had been shipped back to Hogwarts and had settled comfortably back into their parts as extras. Classes were once more in session, and everything should have been back to normal. The one thing that had kept him going during the holidays was that everything was going to be back to normal. And it wasn't.  
  
He bet that that stubborn author was out there somewhere, snickering at him. Anyone else would have given up by now, but no, Draco had to be saddled with someone not only stupid, but persistently so.  
  
The only high point of the day was when he'd heard about the breakup of Granger and the Weasel. Apparently Mrs. Weasley had invited the Mudblood home for the holidays (but conveniently not Harry, who she liked at least as well. stupid author.) According to one of the twins, who was relating the story in an intentionally loud voice for an appreciative audience in the great hall, everything had come to a head a few days after Christmas.  
  
"…And she said 'I'm sorry Ron, but I'm just sick of our being only straight couple in all these slashfics.' The redhead continued with a flourish and a leer, "And besides, you're little sister's really *hot*…"  
  
That interesting bit of information managed to keep Draco's mind off his own problems until about lunchtime, when he learned that Freckle-Face had been shyly flirting with Dean Thomas all morning, and they were now very nearly, almost officially going out.  
  
Besides, next was Double Potions, a class that seemed to be part of his new schedule an inordinate amount of the time.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Today," Professor Snape glowered in what seemed to Draco to be a halfhearted attempt at his old menacing coldness, "We will be brewing a plotwistican potion. Now, this is a very delicate procedure. I don't expect that many of you will succeed. Now, the nature of this potion is such that you must all keep in constant contact with your partners. You will continue to work with the people I put you with directly prior to break-"  
  
Draco's heart sank. In a desperate last stand, he raised his hand.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
"Ehm, Sir? What exactly is a plotwistican potion?"  
  
Snape looked blank. "Well- I-"  
  
"And *why* do we have to stay in contact at all times?"  
  
"I really don't-"  
  
"And do I have to work with Potter?"  
  
"Enough!" Snape shouted. "Ten points from Slytherin!"  
  
Greg lifted a trembling arm into the air. "Ummm… excuse me Sir? You just took points from Slytherin."  
  
Snape graced his pupil with a curt nod. "Very good, Goyle. So I did. And you may all thank your housemate Mr. Malfoy for protesting too much."  
  
Draco looked around at the glares of his classmates. "Doesn't *anyone* else see the problem with this assignment?" he pleaded.  
  
No one answered. Harry gave him what might have been an ill-concealed smile and waved him over to their table.  
  
"Alright, Potter." Draco muttered, "We do this my way. You work, I watch. And if you think the fact that the author is forcing us to hold hands-"  
  
"No."  
  
"No? No what?"  
  
This time, there was no mistaking the grin. The trademarked 'I'm the Hero so everything will eventually go my way' grin. "No, we're not going to be holding hands. If you'd taken the time to look on the board, you'd see that cutting plotcus plant takes two hands- one to hold the knife and the other to keep it from running away from you. Also no, there is no way I'm doing all the work."  
  
Draco stared at the knife Harry had just thrust into his hands. "Then how-"  
  
"Here." Harry shoved him over to the table and handed him the plant he was supposed to cut into even centimeters. "You just start. I'll deal with the rest."  
  
And then he put his arms around his waist.  
  
Draco squawked and dropped the knife. Harry detached himself, retrieved it, and resumed his place.  
  
"There is no way I am going through an entire class period with you wrapped around me like this," Draco whispered angrily.  
  
"Two periods."  
  
"This has got to be the most contrived plot twist in the history of fanfiction." Draco complained. He could feel Harry smiling against his ear.  
  
In point of fact, he could feel Harry almost everywhere. Warm arms around his waist, chest against his back and right side, chin threatening to poke his eye out. He deliberately held himself as stiffly as possible to prevent any chance of relaxing in that (yes, it was so) embrace. Told himself to ignore the warm breath on his face. Definitely forgot about the feeling of butterflies dancing in his stomach.  
  
But, somehow, when he finished chopping the weed and moved on to counting out python scales, he forgot to tell Harry to change positions.  
  
There was a song playing quietly in the background.  
  
  
  
  
  
The quoted song is 'Can't fight the Moonlight' by LeeAnne Rhimes, chose for its inappropriateness to the moment. Who know what the song at the end is… Props to anyone who caught both the Monty Python and the Shakespearian references in this chapter ^_^ In fact, props for just reading this! And thanks to everyone who's reviewed- I think I like reading the reviews for this story more than those for all my other fics combined. The praise you've given me is all too much (and don't worry… he's cracking ^_^) To those of you who said they weren't slashers but liked this… welcome to the dark side. And to VanityFair… Wow! I'm so honored! And see, reviewing is a worthwhile pursuit: people mention you in their notes! 


	4. It's All Right

Contrary to the beliefs of many an aspiring author, flocks of owls descending in droves onto the breakfast tables of Hogwarts was not a particularly common occurrence. Of course, there were always owls delivering messages to the staff- Dumbledore in particular tended to have what must be the highly harrowing experience of a letter splattering wetly into his breakfast every other morning or so- and there were those students who, like Hermione Granger, had decided to pay for the privilege of having a paper brought in for them, but really, that was usually about it. Even the most dedicated parents couldn't be expected to write their children more than once a week  
  
And the students never sent messages to each other via owl. Really, what would be the point? In the time spent writing the note, walking all the up to the owlrey, selecting an owl, getting bitten, selecting another, giving it instructions, and watching it wing its surly way to the other side of the castle, where it would presumably wait until morning to deliver its message, one could just as easily have gone and found whoever they wanted to talk to. And if talking to them in person really wasn't an option, there was always good old fashioned note passing.  
  
It had therefore been something of a surprise to Draco the first time he had come down to breakfast (late, as always- it might no longer be feasible for him to spend the day in his room, but damned if he was going to make himself an obvious target) to find that a troop of owls were been busily stacking letters in front of his usual seat, and had currently decided that the really impressive thing to do would be to have some of them overflowing onto the bench and floor.  
  
Overnight, he had become popular.  
  
Not that he objected to this, in theory. He had always considered himself to be the sorted of charismatic individual it would be possible to have a hopeless, worshiping-from-afar sort of a crush on. The worrisome thing was that no one (with the possible exception of a few Slytherin girls who he wouldn't have touched with a ten foot pole under any circumstances) had ever seemed to agree with him before. Now it seemed that anyone in the school would willingly drop whoever the author had paired them up with just for the pleasure of being his bitch.   
  
Draco hadn't even known that bitch was usable vocabulary in this universe.  
  
On that first morning, he'd been convinced that the entire thing was some sort of sick joke. Hadn't even bothered to open a single letter, just grabbed the nearest envelope (pink, as it happened) and stormed over to the Gryffindor table.  
  
"Potter, is this your idea of... oh."  
  
"Obviously not." Harry added, somewhat needlessly, pushing his glasses up and meeting Draco's eyes over a pile of letters which might charitably be considered *almost* as large as Draco's own. "Perhaps the author's trying to add a bit of background color to the story?"  
Draco, who had been momentarily distracted by thinking about how much Harry's gaze was *not* effecting the rate of his heart, nodded. "That must be it."  
  
"So."  
  
"So?"  
  
Harry stood up and leaned over the table, speaking quietly and distinctly. "So what exactly were you planning on doing over here had it been me, snake-boy?"  
  
Draco's eyes narrowed. "Oh unstilt your dialogue, Harry. You know you'd love to fight me. You'd spend the whole time hoping for a chance to touch me."  
  
"Draco?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You just called me Harry."  
  
Draco suddenly realized that as close as they were to each other, the table they were both leaning against might as well have not been there. He also had time to wonder how they were managing it, considering the fact that he was standing outside of the bench on his side and there was still a mountain of letters on the table as well, and to think, ridiculously, considering that he was in a position from which his mind should be spending every moment trying to think of a way out of, of the lightning shock of a kiss placed on his palm.  
  
At that point, he realized that his eyes were closed.  
  
Oh. Good. That way he couldn't see the rest of the school laughing at him.  
  
"I knew it!"   
  
Draco started back, adrenaline rush rapidly receding as he stared (and no, it wasn't glaring, no more than usual) at the Weasel, who had leapt to his feet and was grinning excitedly.  
  
"I just knew it! Oh, I've been wondering for the longest time when you two were going to figure it out."  
  
"What?" Harry's other friend, Granger, was looking up at them too now. "Ron, what are you talking about? Harry would never get together with scum like Malfoy, even if... oh my god, Harry, are you gay?" she gasped, apparently forgetting all about every other homosexual couple in the room, including her own girlfriend Ginny, who looked ready to burst into tears.   
  
Draco and Harry exchanged glances. After a long moment, Harry looked from one friend to the other. "Er, don't you think the two of you might have it backwards?" he asked. "I mean, usually it's Hermione who's empathetic and Ron who gets all huffy."  
  
Hermione shrugged. "We think the author might be trying to be original," she offered.  
  
"It's not working."  
  
"Well, what did you expect?" Ron said defensively.   
  
Draco felt that all three of them were missing something particularly crucial. "Besides which, we are *not* together."  
  
Three heads swiveled towards him. "You aren't?" Hermione asked him.  
  
"You aren't?" Ron echoed.  
  
"Very good, Potter," Draco drawled. "You're goons are on almost the same level as mine."   
  
Ron looked confused. "But you- I *saw* you!"  
  
Draco grimaced expressively. "Shit happens," he explained, reveling in the taste of the previously forbidden word, "Blame the author."  
  
And then he'd beat as fast a retreat as dignity would allow him, astonished and not a little chagrined at the fact that he now had something to thank Weasley for. After all, he'd almost...  
  
Stupid author.  
  
In any case, whatever might have happened on that morning, it hadn't gotten rid of the ridiculous writer. Or the letters, which if anything seemed to be multiplying exponentially as the mornings continued to wax and wane without any semblance of a plot appearing.  
  
Although potions class continued to be a harrowing experience.  
  
Really, though, nothing had changed.  
  
Nothing at all.  
  
  
  
  
Oh, bugger that. Draco was really pretty sure it wasn't true, anyway. If fact, he thought- well, that was to say, not exactly, but maybe- well, anyway probably, or at least- well. What he was trying to think, very, very quietly to himself in hopes of the author not be picking up on it, was that it might be... not outside the realm of possibility to- and it might not be a bad idea to just... consider the evidence and see if he might not be... falling for Harry.  
  
It wasn't the fact that violins seemed to cue up every time he looked at him. It wasn't that speaking to him seemed to make the day brighter, the world warmer, Crabbe and Goyle slightly more intelligent. It wasn't that his heart would go double time if someone mentioned Harry's name. It wasn't even that he'd started thinking of Harry as Harry, instead of Potter or, better still, 'damn him.'   
  
He knew perfectly well why all of that was happening, and he took no responsibility at all.  
  
It was that it wasn't *just* his heartbeat. It was his heart and a faint stain of red on his cheeks, a painful twist in his stomach, a strangely clammy feeling on the palms of his hands, and a thousand other bodily responses that slipshod writers inevitably forgot.  
  
It was the fact that he didn't just think about Harry when he saw him. He thought about him in the middle of advanced divination, walking through the dungeons on his way to quiddich practice, washing his hands before bed, and a million other times that authors never bothered to write about.  
  
It was that he was quietly thinking phrases like 'falling for Harry' to himself, without reminding anybody what a terribly cheesy phrase that was.  
  
And it was something he would, never, ever, admit to anybody, he promised himself savagely, tearing apart yet another declaration of hopeless love as he watched Harry idly dip one of his own letters into Seamus' scrambled eggs and catsup.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Dammit, Malfoy's simply didn't feel this way!  
  
He could feel the clouds of angst building up around him.  
  
In a way, it was lucky that he'd started thinking about the Malfoy name again. Otherwise, he might not have noticed the crest that was proudly emblazoned across the back of one of his messages.   
  
*Lord, I don't ask for much. But please, please tell me that neither of my parents has taken in into their head to write me a love letter!*  
  
Reaching out as if the snake twined around the family symbol might actually manage to bit him, he broke the seal.  
  
My Dear Son,  
  
Auspicious news, dearest Draco! Our great leader, may he never die (again) has at last set his final plan in motion. It may mean deeper dedication, it may mean harsh sacrifice, but I am confident you will do all he asks. You must-  
  
(and here there was a blank space upon the paper, as if the writer was attempting a visual dramatic pause)  
  
seduce the Boy Who Lived.  
  
  
Ever your Loving,   
  
Father  
  
  
  
  
"Right." Said Draco, crumpling the letter closed. "Absolutely fine, you pompous, cliched, plebian *author!*" He was on his feet, now, shouting and waving his arms, not caring that the entire hall was staring at his, awestruck at his rage. He could feel tears coming. "You've ruined my life, you know that?"  
  
Only one person in the hall dared move. "Draco," Harry said softly.  
  
"I Hate You!" Draco screamed. And he was crying now, unable to see anything but not needing to, propelled by anger and misery as he ran from the hall.  
  
  
  
  
  
So.   
  
So this was it. The coup de grace. The final straw. It wasn't enough to make him miserable in school, to turn the world he lived in into some bizarre parody of itself. The melodrama, the idiocy, the romanticism, it just didn't cut it anymore. There were no more lengths to go to, no more strings to pull. Everything had fallen apart.  
  
But he wouldn't do it. He'd never done something he didn't want to before, he wasn't going to start now. He'd screw the system.  
  
His blind steps had brought him to the owlrey. Of course. Letters again. Letters made the words, words made the story. But this time, he was going to do the writing.  
  
  
Dear Sir.  
  
Lord Voldemort can take his evil plot and stick it. So can you. Will *not* be sleeping with Harry Potter. Not now, not ever. Have a nice day,  
  
Draco  
  
  
  
He waited until after the owl was gone to start crying again in earnest.  
  
  
  
  
  
Draco couldn't have said how long he'd been there, collapsed against the frame of the window. Nor, he imagined, could the author, who obviously had a terrible sense of time and was probably behind as it was, judging by their last attempt at forcing his hand. Long enough for the rough stonework of the sill to have made a permanent imprint on his cheek and forehead.  
  
Long enough for the writer to think it was time to stir things up.  
  
Someone was crossing the room.  
  
No. Not someone. He knew who it was, of course. And he would have known, under any circumstances, which was no small amount disturbing and didn't help his temper one bit.  
  
"Draco."  
  
Draco came up swinging, and his fist cracked against Harry's jaw with a satisfying smacking sound. Harry, flung backwards by shock and the force of the blow, fell backwards and landed hard on the floor. Draco followed him down, pummeling him savagely, disregarding the hooting of the owls and the foul quality of the wood beneath them. This was probably just the sort of thing the author was hoping for, and he just didn't care. He went for a stranglehold around the other boy's throat.   
  
Harry's glasses had shattered, they were both dusted with pricking shards. Draco's fingers were leaving livid marks against the sensitive skin under his chin, and he looked to be having trouble breathing. Draco couldn't have said whether he would have killed him or not, when Harry's arms came up around his back and pulled him downwards, forcing him to ease the pressure slightly as his elbows bent.   
  
Draco had no idea when he simply stopped trying and left his hands to rest limp against his captor. How could he choke someone who wouldn't fight back? His tears were mingling with the blood from their cuts. He could feel the other boy's chest rising and falling quickly under him, could hear both of them breathing in short, sharp gasps. And eventually he realized he was talking, too.  
  
"I don't speak French, you know. All the writers seem to think I should, but I can't. And I don't have this great pile of buried anguish because of all the things I've done. I'd never do anything stupid like send you flowers, I'm not a girl, I have all kinds of nasty habits and I honestly don't give a damn about my grades. I'm not about to betray my parents to you or be nice to your friends. I'm conceited, stupid, pointy faced and an inch from anorexic. I'm not everything the slashers want to pretend I am. I'm a two dimensional petty evil. Why can't you leave me alone?"  
  
Harry, frustratingly, didn't say anything. Just shifted the boy in his arms until they were almost face to face.  
  
Draco moved his hand to brush the glass from Harry's face. "Do you know what I just did, Potter? I just told the dark lord to screw himself. All so I wouldn't have to be with you."  
  
Harry leant forward and kissed his cheek.  
  
Draco realized they must both be aware of how quickly his heart was beating. He could feel the tension in the other boy too, even as he moved to continue his ministrations in a line of soft, stroking kisses up Draco's temple. He decided he'd better keep talking. "This is completely against cannon. And no matter how it may feel, it's not love, and it's not real. I don't love you."  
  
"Not yet." Harry whispered.  
  
"Not ever." Draco countered. He found that his speech was now being given to the arch of Harry's neck. His mouth kept accidentally brushing against soft skin. "I happen to like being a villain. I'm not going to come running over to your side. A relationship between us would never work."  
  
"Mmm-hmm..."  
  
"Are you listening to me?" Draco gave up the battle of keeping his lips from working against Harry's collarbone as he spoke.  
  
"No." Harry pulled back and looked at the other boy amusedly. "Should I be?"  
  
"That's not funny."  
  
"Draco," Harry said long-sufferingly. "I can't kiss you very easily from this position."  
  
So Draco kissed him.  
  
And there were fireworks.  
  
It was a melting sort of a kiss, distilled down to perfection by being forced to wait four chapters and many thousands of words more than the author had planned. It was fire and ice, it was all four elements combined.  
  
It was, Draco was discovering, ridiculously easy to be cliché, all on your own.  
  
Which reminded him...  
  
Pushing gently away from Harry, who looked somewhat dazed and thoroughly short of breath, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand, waving it distractedly in the direction of the ceiling.   
  
"Finitum." He whispered.  
  
And the author was rather surprised to find that her fic was at an  
  
  
  
END  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*Bows* If you didn't like that ending, my sincere apologies. But I'm afraid the author has fallen into one of her own pit traps and refuses to come out. Says she likes it down there. Course, it does rather beg the question, couldn't Draco have finished the story at any time he liked? I suppose that's for him to know.  
  
Someone is also probably going to ask, will there be a sequel? Maybe. I have some ideas, but I'm not sure they're enough for a whole 'nother story. If the badfics keep cropping up, I probably won't be able to resist. But for now... no promises.  
  
Many thanks to all reviewers, and especially to everyone who has contacted me outside of ff.net, asking when I would work on this. Here's your answer.  
  
And I really am sorry about that ending. Once I started mushing, it just fell apart ^_^ I feel as if I betrayed myself, but there you are. I'm just a bad author at heart. And quite happy, too. 


End file.
